Pete's Expert Summary
My human seems to have acquired yet another peculiar human ritual containment system, this one in a small blue box. It appears to be a collection of stiff, colorful rectangles they call "cards." The purpose is not immediately clear, but it involves them sitting around a table making agitated noises and slapping the cards down in a frantic manner. The whole affair is alarmingly fast-paced, which disrupts the serene atmosphere required for my deep-thought napping. While the individual cards possess a certain aerodynamic quality that might be interesting if batted from a significant height, the game itself seems to be a pointless exercise in staring at printed paper when they could be staring at me, a true masterpiece of form and function. It is, at best, a temporary distraction for my staff.
Key Features
- New Monopoly Deal card game that is moving through Family Game Nights everywhere
- Collect 3 complete property sets but beware of the Debt Collectors, Forced Deals and Deal Breakers
- If you are looking for a fun family/friend game, this is it
- Now only plays up to five players which takes apprx 45 min to play w/5 people, apprx 35 min w/4, apprx 15-25 minutes w/3 people and apprx 5-15 minutes w/2 people
- Fun, fast dealing…every card counts
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The evening began, as many do, with a grievous offense. My chosen napping vessel—the one they call "Dad's lap"—was unceremoniously vacated. The humans gathered around the low table in the center of the room, a place I generally reserve for surveying my domain. From the box came a rustling, a sharp *shuff-shuff-shuff* that mimicked the sound of the treat bag but offered none of its rewards. A false promise. I watched from the arm of the sofa, tail twitching in mild irritation, as they dealt out the little paper tiles. Their behavior was baffling. They’d squint at their holdings, a strange tension filling the air. Then, one of them would slap down a card—a particularly odious red one, I noted—and cry "Deal Breaker!" The victim would groan, a sound of pure anguish I usually only hear when I decide the potted fern looks better on the floor. I began to see it not as a game, but as a formalized, miniature war. The colorful cards weren't properties; they were territories. The money cards were a crude form of tribute. These bumbling giants were playing at being kings and queens, and frankly, they were terrible at it. Then, the moment of truth. In a fit of pique after having her little blue territory stolen, my primary human swiped a card from her hand. It fluttered through the air, a wounded bird of paper and ink, before landing silently on the rug not two feet from my perch. It was a green one. I saw tiny houses printed on it. A fiefdom, abandoned. I descended from the sofa with the deliberate grace of a predator. I did not pounce. That would be vulgar. I circled it, sniffing its papery essence. It smelled of human hands and abstract conflict. I extended a single, perfect paw and gently tapped its edge, causing it to spin. It was decided. I placed my paw firmly upon the card, pinning it to the rug. Then, with an air of finality, I lowered myself onto it, tucking my paws beneath my pristine white chest. The game could continue, but this small, green corner of their flimsy empire was now mine. They could squabble over their other little rectangles, but this one had been claimed by a higher power. My verdict: the game is a foolish human endeavor, but its artifacts make for surprisingly adequate thrones. It may proceed, so long as tribute is paid.
